by James Hunt
“Finn just found it three minutes ago,” Alexander said. “We confirmed it with the Americans.”
“Then we won’t have a lot of time. Set up a call with the American president. I’ll need to speak with him personally about this.”
Alexander nodded, and Andrea went to speak with Finn. He shot out of his chair when he saw her, but she waved him down. “I want to see it.”
“Yes, Chancellor.” Finn pulled up a few different windows on the monitors in front of him, and she could see the images Alexander had spoken about. “This was less than an hour ago, coming out of a small Virginia port. There was only one camera feed, and the image isn’t great, but look.”
Andrea watched the figure get out of the boat then adjust her jacket, and Andrea could see the flash of something metallic. “Guns?”
“Yes, and then she just leaves the boat there on the shore,” Finn added. “I believe she’s heading back to Chicago.”
“Have you found any other images?”
“No, Chancellor, but I’ve widened our search to see what we can pull out. I’m hoping for something within an hour.”
“That may not be soon enough.” Andrea placed her hand on Finn’s shoulder and gave a light squeeze. “Keep looking.” She found Alexander on the phone in a private anteroom, and he covered the receiver when he noticed her.
“I’m on the line with the White House now,” Alexander said. “The president is doing a PR stunt at a hospital, but they’re putting me through.”
Andrea took the phone from him. Less than a minute later, she heard the click of the lines switching over and a voice informing her that the line was secure. “Mr. President, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Andrea. My chief of staff said it was urgent.”
“It’s about our girl. I need assurance that she won’t be killed or charged or brought into the public light until we know all the facts. And I mean everything.” The pause that followed was filled with a gut-wrenching pain in Andrea’s stomach. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. President?”
“Andrea, she attacked some of our agents. None of them were killed, but they were injured and left in a swamp while she stole their boat.”
While the news was alarming, Andrea couldn’t help but smile. Her girl was on the run, but she had managed to stay resourceful. “Frank, you and I both know that if she wanted to kill your men, then she could have. Look at her track record.”
“Oh, believe me, I am. Andrea, all the things that she’s been able to do have been behind our backs. There’s no telling how many missions she’s been on or how many lives she’s put at risk!”
“Or how many lives she’s saved.” The retort was quick. Andrea knew the president was wary about what type of organization Sarah Hill was a part of and how large it could be, but he also hadn’t spoken to her, seen the woman in person. “Frank, we cannot jump to conclusions on this.”
“I’ll note that to my team,” the president replied.
“Thank you.”
The call ended, and even after the president’s words, she still felt troubled. Attacking the CIA wasn’t the best start for trying to establish a relationship with the American government, but Andrea held fast to the hope that it had only been out of self-defense. But even if that was true, she knew the Americans wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever was necessary to protect their interests.
***
Agent Grimes helped the rest of his men through the swamp, keeping a mindful watch on the gators Sarah had mentioned. Despite the sarcastic tone in which she had warned them, the blood that circled the water could attract who knows what type of animals. He brushed the muck from his pants and shoes once they made it to the shoreline.
“I want search boats and choppers for ten miles up the coast, and I want a blockade ten miles up,” Grimes said. “I don’t care what you have to do. Fishing boats, rafts, canoes, anything that can float and search the water, I want out there.”
Mallory handed him a clean shirt and pants, and the two walked over to one of the vans, where Grimes stripped down out of view, drying himself with a towel. “The tracking device on the boat?”
“She ripped it out,” Mallory answered, the fight in his voice deflating slightly. “The swamp stretches for another six miles.”
“Exit points?”
“Too many to cover. We’ve already got patrol boats out there, but it’ll be dark soon, and the swamp trees are too thick for the choppers to get any real coverage of the area. Our best bet is to catch her up the coast. I don’t think we’re going to find her coming out of the swamp, if she even keeps the boat.”
“She’ll keep the boat,” Grimes replied, slipping on his shirt and getting the muck out of his hair. “She’s in a hurry; that’s the only reason she stopped us. She could have just as easily kept swimming.”
“You think she was fishing for info?”
“That and time. Did you check in with the unit at the sister-in-law’s house?”
“Yeah, nobody’s moved.”
Grimes found it odd that Becca hadn’t gone anywhere, made any moves. The last encounter the two of them had had made him think that she’d run. She exhibited all the signs: angry, paranoid, depressed. “Tell our guys to do a check-in. I want to know what’s going on inside that house.”
“On it.”
Once Mallory had left, Grimes found himself alone in the back of the van into which he’d gone to change. He could hear the units of police officers and coordinating agencies searching the area. The shouts and sirens and the barking of dogs were overwhelming, and he felt a sudden chill he blamed on the water and the wind. But deep down, it was something more troubling.
Up until this point, all Grimes had had to go on were the stories from other people who’d retold their experiences upon meeting Hill. Based on that, he had been able to quantify certain abilities, motives, and trajectories. But seeing what she could do firsthand—that was something else entirely. He knew she’d been right when she told them she could have killed them if she wanted to. But she didn’t.
Grimes shrugged it off. The only reason he wasn’t dead was because if he were, the agency would do whatever it took to find her. There’s nothing worse when you’re trying to stay below the radar than killing a federal officer. Her face would have been plastered all over the news.
Even so, Grimes had never seen anyone move that fast, shoot that well, and just do everything she did, by herself. What if there were more like her? Christ. She had made his men look like a bunch of mall cops. If an entire agency full of people like her existed, then Grimes couldn’t image what that would look like. It would be worse than the Cold War or anything he’d read about in history. For the first time in his career, Grimes suddenly felt like he wasn’t the smartest man in the room.
***
The knock came at the door, and all Becca did was keep her eye on the gun in the tall man’s hand. He said nothing when he arrived, made no demands except that they remain quiet or he’d kill all three of them. When he gestured to the door with the pistol, she slowly got up from the kitchen table while he followed.
When Becca reached for the door handle, she saw her hand shaking. The man positioned himself behind both her and the door, the pistol clutched in his hand. Two men in suits, dressed in the same fashion as the CIA agent who had spoken with her earlier, smiled at her.
“Hello, Mrs. Hill. I’m Agent Lukes, and this is Agent Mills. We were hoping we could come in and have a quick word with you?”
“I’ve already spoken to your agency. A man named Agent Grimes came by earlier.” Leave. Just go. In her peripheral vision, the man towered over her, his finger on the trigger.
“I understand that, ma’am, but it was actually Agent Grimes who asked us to check in on you. You don’t need to come anywhere with us, but we’d like to stay in the house with you if that’s all right.”
“No, I’m not comfortable with that,” Becca said. She felt the tall man’s eyes on her. She knew they wouldn’t be fast enough. Sh
e’d seen the tall man shoot before. He was quick and never missed. If she let them inside, they would die. Becca kept the door cracked as the two agents exchanged a look. She wasn’t sure if they’d try to force their way in or not, but the longer they lingered, the more she thought they would.
“Mrs. Hill, I’m afraid that we can’t leave here without at least checking the house first.” The tone in his voice hardened, and he unbuttoned his jacket, his hand reaching for the butt of his pistol.
Becca’s heart rate quickened. She dug her fingertips into the edge of the doorframe, turning them white, their warmth replaced by cold. She forced a smile as her voice caught in her throat. “Of course. Just give me one minute to get dressed, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Becca closed the door, leaning her head on the wood. The tall man just stood there holding his gun. When she looked at him, he gave no sign of what he would do. It was like looking at some horrible constant, some god of death and vengeance you couldn’t bargain with, no matter the reason and no matter the cause. Death would cover you like a veil, and you were powerless to stop it. “Please. Don’t do this.”
But the god of death said nothing, gave no mercy, and showed no favoritism. “Let them in.”
Becca’s heart dropped to her stomach. She reached and unchained the lock with a trembling hand. The metal slid against the lock and swung from the chain. She turned the door handle, and her face grew hot. The agents must have known something was wrong. Both rushed inside, reaching for their guns, but the moment the two of them were inside the foyer, the tall man put a bullet into each of their temples, staining the opposite wall red. The gunshots were muffled by the long suppressor at the end of the pistol. Each shot triggered a scream from Becca, and she rushed to the living room, where both Matt and Ella were huddled in the corner. She picked the two of them up and opened the sliding glass door, but before she could make it outside, she felt a hand grab her shoulder and yank her backward, sending her and the children to the floor.
Becca pulled both kids behind her, backing all three of them up against the far wall, as the tall man slid the glass door closed, still wielding his pistol. Ella and Matt’s small bodies trembled against her back, and she heard their faint sobs and cries. “What do you want?” Becca’s words came out in whispered gasps. “Just leave us alone. I haven’t told anyone anything. What do you want?” she screamed, her face flushed red and her body shaking with adrenaline.
The tall man dropped to one knee, his eyes locked on her own, the barrel of the pistol still aimed at her head. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the picture of Sarah and her family when she was just a child. He laid it on the carpet in front of her and tapped his forefinger on Sarah’s scratched and distorted face. “Her,” he said. “I want. Her.”
After everything that had happened to Becca, being kidnapped by this man, being separated from her husband, spending days not knowing whether she and her family were going to live or die, then being freed at the last moment only to have her husband die—even with all of that, she couldn’t find it in herself to betray Sarah. This wasn’t Sarah’s fault. It was the fault of the man in front of her.
“She’ll come when she finds out where you are,” Becca said. “She’ll kill you.” The words left her mouth with a smile and tears in her eyes. “And when she does, I’ll be here to watch it. You hear me?” The shaking in her body had ceased, and she felt a calm wash over her. “You’re a dead man.”
It was the first time she’d seen any sense of emotion come from him as the corners of his mouth curled upward. He holstered the pistol and grabbed Becca by the jaw. He squeezed hard, and she felt the bone bend. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Chapter 10
Sarah shifted the bag she carried from her left hand to her right. She shrugged her shoulders, and the loose-fitting grey shirt she’d picked up from the Goodwill draped down her right arm. She pulled it back up, feeling the effort in her muscles at performing the simple task. The bill of her baseball cap hung low on her forehead, shielding most of her face from view. At a glance, she looked like nothing more than some local looking for work.
The entire way up the coast and hitchhiking through the mountains to Illinois, she’d fought the urge to contact Bryce. It was easy enough to do, but she knew what he’d tell her. Come in. But the moment she did that, the chance of her getting Demps disappeared, and she’d only get one shot to get Branston to give up the name. She knew he would. And if he didn’t, then she’d chop him up one piece at a time until he told her what she wanted to hear.
The outline of the Chicago skyline appeared in the distance, and she felt a sudden burst of energy return. Her feet found the pavement in quick succession. The small suburban community with the old safe house would at least give her a place to restock on ammo, assuming it hadn’t been burned to the ground by Demps’s men. She did her best to avoid any unnecessary eye contact with the folks in their front yards. The less she had to explain herself the better off she’d be.
Sarah stopped at the front door, and behind the cover of one of the pillars on the front porch, she pulled her pistols out of the bag. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, scouring the room for anyone that could be waiting. On her way to the back of the house, she could see that all the doors were swung open. Someone was here.
Once she checked the perimeter and determined the house was clear, she made her way into what was left of the armory. She’d taken the guns from their earlier stay, but she pulled one of the drawers out and removed a false bottom that hid a few cases of .45 bullets she’d stashed there just in case she ever needed to return. She dumped the empty magazines she’d carried with her and started loading them when the phone on the wall rang, four or five times before Sarah picked it up, and when she did it was Bryce who spoke first.
“Sarah, you need to come in, now.”
“I’m not done with the names yet, Bryce. You know I won’t come back till it’s done, and when I do, it’s just to collect the last one.”
“Something’s happened at Becca’s place.”
The bullet she held between her fingers dropped to the floor. She gripped the phone with both hands. The plastic casing around the phone creaked from the increased pressure of her fingers. She couldn’t find the words, a part of her was afraid to ask, but she mustered the grit to finally speak up. “Are they dead?” The words were hollow, deadpan, as if saying them aloud gave them the possibility of truth.
“No.”
Sarah’s legs almost collapsed from underneath her. Her knees buckled, but she managed to keep herself upright. “What happened?”
“I’ve been watching the heat signatures on the house. It’s been three ever since one of the agents that’s been tracking you visited them. About an hour ago, I got another heat signature that showed up, and it wasn’t one of the agents stationed outside watching them.”
“Who?”
“The man who killed your brother.”
Sarah dropped the phone and left it dangling on the cord, Bryce’s voice still trying to boom through the speaker. She grabbed the box of ammo and magazines and went to the garage, where the car they’d left earlier still sat.
The garage door opened, and she reversed out of the driveway, tires squeaking as she peeled out onto the street. The tires burned out in a cloud of smoke as the onlookers on their porches watched her disappear. She ran stop signs and red lights and disregarded any notion of traffic safety as she sped toward Becca’s house.
Sarah ditched the car half a mile before she made it to Becca’s place. The rest of the way was on foot, giving her the advantage of stealth. If Becca and the kids were still alive, then the man was using them as nothing more than bait. Demps must have caught wind that his board members were going down, and he’d sent his goon after her.
It was smart, going after Becca and the kids. It would draw her in, and the emotional connection would cloud her judgment, but the one thing Demps and his monster had forgotten to cons
ider was how fucking pissed she was. It was an anger that soaked through her bones. She’d been running on it ever since she’d watched the life go out of Ben’s eyes. And now it just needed to burn a little longer.
The CIA agents’ vehicle was easy enough to spot: a grey sedan, inconspicuous and easily forgettable. Sarah kept to the west side of the house, where there were the fewest windows and places for him to spot her approach. The second-floor balcony window would be the best way in, so long as he wasn’t keeping everyone upstairs, which is what she would have done.
Whenever you wanted to kill someone, the best way was surprise, but if you couldn’t do it that way, which the man knew he couldn’t, then pulling them into a kill box and forcing them to fight on your terms was the next best thing.
The house to the left of Becca’s was two stories tall, with a tree on its far west side. She hopped over the gate and shimmied up the tree, her pistols swinging in the shoulder holster underneath her jacket that she’d changed into on the way over. When she passed one of the windows in the house, a toddler spotted her, and his pacifier fell out of his mouth. Sarah pressed her finger to her lips then kept climbing. She dashed around the back side of the roof, keeping her feet light, then crouched on the back corner edge to scan Becca’s house.
The curtains were drawn, blocking her view of the inside, but they were also thick enough that the captor couldn’t see her, either. With a quick sprint, Sarah ran to the edge of the roof, launched herself toward Becca’s house, then shoulder checked the window, shattering it and landing hard on the floor of Ella’s bedroom. When she rolled to her knees, both pistols were out. No point in being coy.
Sarah sat there, waiting for any sound, any creak, any peep that would give away their position. Then, after a solid thirty seconds of silence, she heard the familiar creak of the third step on the staircase. She jumped out the doorway and fired down the flight of stairs. Bullets splintered penny-sized holes in the steps as the tall man retreated around the corner in the living room. Sarah slid down the bannister, both pistols poised to shoot, then landed with a light thud on the wooden floorboards. The steel in her hands shifted as she repositioned her fingers. Her feet avoided the shell casings on the ground, and she edged to the end of the wall of the living room behind which the tall man had disappeared. She slid down, crouching as low as she could, then pivoted on her left foot and turned the corner, but the room was empty. She rose slowly, the ends of her pistols scanning the room, her body moving forward in its programmed fashion, needing little help from her mind, which she used to concentrate on locating Becca and the kids.
